ridiculate

This morning I came home at seven thirty. It has been quite a while since I've been out that late. In fact, the last time I clearly remember coming home to the rising sun was after watching one of the epic Utah Jazz – Chicago Bulls battles on the big screen when I was still in Germany. There must have been more recent occasions, but then, I guess, when you get home at such an hour, you usually don't remember much afterwards.

I had been to a triple header birthday party last night, which, in keeping with fine college traditions, only started at ten. People drank and smoked merrily but started leaving around two or three. To me that's when the conversations became interesting. I stayed, and time flew by. At some point, I found myself walking through the quiet streets of Grenoble with the last hold-outs – a French, four English and another German.

We came by a bakery that is oftentimes claimed to have the best croissants in town. I have to admit that I prefer my pâtisserie around the corner, but it's hard to argue when you're hungry at 5:45 on a Sunday morning. Half a block down, underneath the railroad tracks, the France that rises early was putting up the first booths of the farmer's market.

We came to a bar that was open – whether still or already I can't say – and went in. The English had a dozen oysters, bar food in France. The rest tested coffee's power of keeping us awake. Judging from the ruckus we raised inside the bar, it worked passably, but it wasn't enough for everyone to find to full strength. I, for one, started making up words, and was ridiculated for it. Good morning, everyone.